


The Prince of Eil K'chan

by Entropyrose



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Caveman!Frank, CrownPrince!Matt, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Violence, Historically Inaccurate, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someday, if I am so blessed, I will live to be old, and my grand-children will sit at my feet and ask me the story of how their Grandfather and I met. It is a love story, true, but it begins with a war story. I will tell it thusly: </p><p>Or, Matt and Frank are members of warring tribes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prayer of the Weeping Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of complete, utter, total fiction. It does not represent any specified date, time, ethnic group, or religious origin. It is historically inaccurate and really just a ton of fun! :) 
> 
> For your consideration: 
> 
> Eil K'chan(Pronounced, EHL-KACHAHN): Hell's Kitchen  
> Mata-u(Pronounced MAH-TOW): Matt Murdock  
> Fogi:(pronounced, FOH-GEE) Foggy  
> Frun (Pronounced, FROON) Frank  
> Kepp-Ahun (pronounced, KEHP-A-HOON) Kingpin

-Prologue-

Someday, if I am so blessed, I will live to be old, and my grand-children will sit at my feet and ask me the story of how their Grandfather and I met. It is a love story, true, but it begins with a war story. I will tell it thusly: 

Many ages ago, before the tip of Curon’s Arrow fell from the sky and struck the earth, there was a Great Land, with one horizon and one people. The trees bore fruit of all colors, and the rich soil provided food for the many animals that walked along it. The water was cool and clear, and provided many fat, healthy fish for the people of the Lake Tribes. The hills were vast and cavernous, and they gave shelter to the Mountain People during the harsh snow that fell heavy and fast in the winters. The forests were thick and green, and a child could grow into a man, fast and strong, by climbing the trees and vines. 

But even with all this bounty, the people were at unrest. One tribe would go to war with another, burning entire villages and laying their food stores to waste. Mothers wept for their dead sons, and the Chieftains of the defeated tribes were executed or enslaved. And no Tribe was as feared and reviled as the Mountain Tribe. They were ruthless warriors who made their living off the backs of other nations—enslaving, pillaging, and forcing the lesser tribes to pay homage or suffer the fate of the many fallen people. Their people trained in the ways of war and murder, the Mountain Tribe commanded half the Great Land, from the inland nomads to the voyaging Ocean Tribes. And one warrior among them was famed above all others—Frun K’Talle, the Skull Lord. 

It came to pass that homage came due for the Tribe of Eil K’chan, a people of the lake, and they refused to pay. Then, Kepp-Ahun, The King of The Mountain people, sent his finest warriors, led by Frun K’Talle, to lay to waste the insolent water-tribe. But the Son of the Lake People, the crown prince Mata-u, was brave and strong, and far more intelligent than the war-lord Frun. He set an ambush for the Mountain Tribe, and nearly would have succeeded, had it not been for the incomprehensible power of the warriors. The King was killed, and the Lake Tribe laid to waste, and Mata-u now found himself a captive of the Skull Lord, at the mercy of a man who had no mercy to spare. 

 

Chapter One: (Prayer of the Weeping Moon) 

Mata-u would not hang his head, even as his enemies tied him up and used his own staff as leverage for the ropes that bound his hands. He crouched when he was kicked down to the dirt. The cinder of the burning huts flew up and assaulted his nose. He cringed, but he refused to look away. The commanding presence before him was introduced by the way of bare feet pounding into the earth—grinding heel inward first, followed by all five toes digging into the blood-caked soil. 

A blade jutted against the underside of his jaw, and he tilted his head upward. “Your father is dead,” the voice said gruffly. 

“I am aware,” Mata-u uttered matter-of-factly, his eyelashes fluttering in the light of the hot sun. It stung his eyes and played havoc with his senses, still he glared up at the creature who had slaughtered so many of his people. 

The man before him huffed authoritatively, sliding his bone-knife out of its leather sheath, crossing it with his hunter’s blade in the shape of an “x” across the Prince’s throat. “Should I let you join him?” 

“You can’t!” A voice piped up, from the line of captives scattered in a kneeling position on the ground. 

“Who said that?!” The Skull Lord roared, his head whipping around, his eyes glaring at the cowering blond whose mouth hung open nervously. 

“Be silent, Fogi,” Mata-u murmured, in a vain attempt to silence his friend. 

“You cannot execute a Prince without the trial of an Elder’s Council.” The chubby blond man swallowed hard, but straightened his back even in the face of certain death. 

The tall black-haired warrior hissed out a laugh. “You are wise, fat one.” 

“M’not fat…” Fogi muttered. 

“But you are not a Prince, are you?” Suddenly, the spear pointed at Mata-u’s back slid to Fogi’s as Frun commanded his soldier with his eyes. “And I can execute you.” 

“You cannot kill him, either,” Mata-u barked, keeping his gaze forward. “He is not a Warrior.” 

“No?” Frun raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m a pacifist,” Fogi added in his own defense. “I am a scholar. An----an acolyte of the Witch Doctor Fre-Dyn.” 

“A coward, then,” growled Frun, his own blade sailing through the air to land on Fogi’s exposed chest, pushing the tip inward, drawing a thin line of blood. Fogi let out a whimper. “You deserve death all the same, for refusing to be a man and fight alongside your brethren.” 

“If you kill him,” Mata-u ground out, a sense of urgency and warning in his tone, “You will not be able to escape the wrath that will descend upon you from the Sister-Tribes. The murder of a Shaman or her student is seen an abomination to all people.” 

Frun studied Mata-u’s sharp glare, yet his weapon remained pinned on his friend.

“Surely you are not that stupid,” Mata-u hissed. “You know what I say is true. And at any rate, your quarrel is with me.” 

“Yes,” Frun agreed, lowering the blade. “Yes it is.” 

Of the fifty-four surviving tribesman, thirty-six were spared—if one could call enslavement being “spared”—and the others were run through with spears or burnt alive inside the huts as they were set ablaze. Mata-u had never witnessed such brutality. The Lake Tribe of Eil K’chan were not warriors of any kind. They were fishermen and bead-workers, people who lived off berries and painted intricate designs river-rocks and who joined their voices in music and laughter. Though Mata-u had at first disagreed with his father’s uprising, knowing it would almost certainly mean death, he was sickened by the oppression his people suffered at the hands of the Mountain Tribe. He had done his best to formulate a plan, to be ready with sticks and rocks and arrows, all of which were no match for the skill of the highly-trained warriors. 

…Frun K’Talle made quick work of their deaths. 

“Stand over there,” Frun ordered, pointing into the shade of the lone tree where his horse awaited. Mata-u hesitated. It seemed the sun was blocking out his ability to judge the parameters normally so clear to his extra senses. Frun grabbed a firm hold on his bicep and shook. “Are you deaf?” 

“Let me help him,” Fogi begged, straining against his binds. “He cannot see.” 

Frun blinked, taken aback for a moment. He peered through the thick layer of beads strung around the Prince’s head-piece, catching a glimpse of Mata-u’s haunting, pearl-white eyes. He hesitated, then pulled Mata-u’s bound hands harshly and shoved him against the side of his horse. His horse nickered, shifting in place before letting out a huff of disdain. Frun looped several strong knots through the prince’s bindings and fastened him to the side of his steed. He ripped off the headpiece, exposing Mata-u’s pale eyes. “Stay,” he growled. 

He stalked back to the place where his warriors gathered with their captives, and Mata-u let himself grin when he heard the notorious Skull-Lord cursing out his men. “You insolent fools! You worthless swine! We lost fifteen fine warriors and you were all had—all of you—by a BLIND MAN!? When we return, I will have the heads of your firstborn for this, do you hear me?” 

“Xafu--*” One of the men spoke up. (Xafu is their word for ‘sir’) 

“Do NOT DARE to interrupt me!,” Frun ranted, hacking a slice of the man’s ear off. He howled in pain, clasping a hand over the ear that was now spurting blood. 

“But, Xafu---“ Another spoke up.

“Why is everyone defying me today?,” The Skull Lord continued. 

“He is escaping!” One of the warriors yelled, pointing towards the direction where moments ago, Frun’s horse and the Crown Prince had been.

Frun glanced up to see the cinnamon-haired warrior galloping away, hands still bound behind his back, across the grassy field.

“GODS DAMN IT!” Frun bellowed, snatching one of the other horses to take off after him. 

The chase led both men into the thick forest, branches whipping past their heads and both horses nearly tripping on the roots that sprang up from the ground. Mata-u leaned in, his legs burning as he straddled the steed, and flattened himself to its back as far as he could go. The sound of arrows whizzing past his head made him lurch to one side. Prince or no Prince, executing an escapee was fair game. With a groan, he snapped the cords that held his hands and at last his arms were free. He grabbed up fistfuls of the beasts’ long mane and kicked a heel into its side. The horse whinnied and ran like the wind, the Skull-Lord and his steed nipping fast at his heels. 

Mata-u steered his horse right, but the sharp turn did nothing to shake his pursuer. He dove through the brush and into a clearing, following the sound of rushing water. He knew the land well and the lakes better—had mapped them out in his mind since the day he became blinded. He was not lost. He knew exactly where he was. Another arrow flew past, then another, and then he felt a sharp sting in his ankle as a third arrow grazed him and went directly into the horse. The horse let out a frightened cry, bucking upward, and Mata-u dove off, landing on the wet rocks of the riverbed. He quickly scampered into the water as he heard hooves fast approaching, and took refuge under the trunk of a downed tree as the warrior approached. 

His heart was pounding, the sound nearly drowning out the footsteps of the warrior as he stalked the steep banks of the water’s edge. When his adversary was upon him, Mata-u readied himself, sticking a hand through the hollow log and grabbing hold of the ankle of his opponent, dragging him down into the water with him. 

Mata-u legs kicked to maintain his hold, grasping the broad shoulders of the man and pushing him under the water. The struggled for a few moments, both taking turns being held down by the other. The torrent swept them against the jagged boulders and tumbled them around in the waves, finally spitting them out onto the gravely shoreline, where they grappled for control, their wet bodies writhing over one-another. 

Mata-u let out a pained cry as both arms were wrenched underneath his back, the skilled war-lord having gained the upper hand and mashing Mata-u’s head into the sand. He clenched Mata-u’s short brown braid into his fist, wrenching his head back and holding him there. Both warriors paused, panting and out of breath, upon the river’s shore.

“Why?,” Mata-u choked out, water sputtering from his lips. “Why do you do this?” 

“Do what?” Frun fired back, adrenaline still soaring through his veins. 

“My people…we have lived on this water for centuries. You have no right to take that away.” 

Frun ignored the comment, dragging the insolent Prince up by his braid, wrenching him forward and up the embankment to the horse that was waiting there. Frun fastened him to the horse, the knots so tight they cut off circulation and bit into Mata-u’s wrists, and shoved him belly-down onto the back end of the steed. “That was a good horse you made me lose,” Frun growled as he climbed on. 

They rode on until dark, where the night-cries of the owl and the chittering of the bug blocked out the senses Mata-u required to make sense of his surroundings. It would not have been a problem, had he known the place by heart, but the ground under the horse’s feet and the smell of the foliage were unfamiliar. Soon, he smelled fire of a nearby camp and it caused his back to stiffen. No time to reflect on the demise of his people, the death of his father by the hands of the monster now sharing a horse with him, no quiet moments to go and grieve. He steeled himself as the smoke smell grew brighter, the crackling fire became audible, the voices of the people gathered there. 

“Mata-u!” A familiar voice chirped. It was Fogi, rattling the bars of a makeshift cage, straining to see his form in the darkness as they approached the camp. 

“Xafu,” said one of Frun’s men, crossing an arm over his chest in greeting. The Skull Lord repeated the gesture before pulling the Crown Prince off his horse and handing it off to the solider. 

“You continued without me,” he announced, approaching the warriors gathered around the fire. They stared at each other with cautious eyes, but he continued, “That is good. Re-secure the ties on the prisoners and post watch. I am going to my tent.” 

“Should we put him with the others?,” One asked, gesturing towards Mata-u. 

Frun shook his head .“His worshipfulness stays with me,” he ground out, “He has caused enough trouble today.” 

Mata-u’s heart fluttered a little as he was shoved towards the back of the circle, near the trap of captives where Fogi shook the bars. “Mata-u, my Prince,” Fogi sweetly murmured. Mata-u smiled, and the greeting was repeated, rippling through the group of fellow Lake-people, as they all went to their knees on the ground. 

“I am so glad you are all safe,” Mata-u said, his smile brightening as he sensed his gaze honing in on Fogi’s face. 

A guard rapped his spear against the bars. “NO SPEAKING!,” he barked. 

Mata-u was dragged away in silence, away from the warm fire and the comfort of his people. The flap of the tent was thrown wide and he was tossed onto a hard patch of grass covered by one deer-hide as his captor dug through a satchel in the corner. He pulled out a long leg bone that had been sharpened to a fine point at one end and a hatchet and grabbed the rope between Mata-u’s wrists. Mata-u shuddered. “What are you…?” 

“To prevent any further…setbacks,” Frun hissed, pounding the stake between the ropes and into the ground with two mighty swings. Mata-u was promptly stapled to the ground, lying with his stomach flat to the itchy coverings. He squirmed. “Hold still,” Frun muttered. It was the only warning he gave as he opened a bladder of harsh-smelling liquid and poured it over Mata-u’s injured ankle. 

His teeth clamped down hard onto his bottom lip, a hiss escaping as the searing sting bit into his flesh. “Why…why bother healing me?” 

“For one who claims to be so smart, you are full of questions,” Frun growled, ripping off a piece of hide from his own loin-cloth to tie around his leg. 

“You are the great Skull-Lord,” he muttered in reply. The pain subsided as the strange liquid soothed his aching wound. “I escaped. The Code of Law gave you every right to execute me. Why didn’t you just kill me?” 

“Continue speaking while I try to sleep…” The warrior let out a groan as he flopped down in the place across from Mata-u, one arm under his head, his black eyes glaring at his captive “…and I will.” 

* * * * *


	2. Dynrah's Tribute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (OMG Okay you guys please don't be mad at me for this...all I can say, is, that NO! Matt (Mata-u) is NOT going to die! OKAY? I don't want to say any more than that but I want you to enjoy reading, so without further ado, here's Chapter 2! (hey that last part rhymed...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I noted in Ch 1 that Mata-u's eyes in this fic are white. There are several reasons for this. 
> 
> 1-I wanted to make sure that every character in this fic would pretty much instantly recognize him as blind
> 
> 2-I like the concept of the white eyes from the Daredevil (Affleck) movie and sort of carried it over from there
> 
> 3-I have some art for this fic that I WILL BE POSTING (pinky promise!) and the eyes just didn't look right unless they were white, so I figured, what the heydee hoo....

In all his battles, Frun had yet to lay eyes upon a man who could in most ways be considered his equal. He was the Skull Lord—he had no equal, and it WAS to remain that way. 

He kicked the sleeping form as a sliver of morning light pierced the veil of the tent. “Mmph,” the mound mumbled. Sometime during the night, Frun had lost his only covering to the man now sleeping on the pile of grass that was his bed. It must have been an incredible feat, for the captive’s hands were still bound tightly by the ropes that were driven into the hard ground by the bone-stake. He nudged the form again in his soft belly, and this time the man startled with a gasp, his head jutting up from the grass and its hide covering. 

“Eat,” Frun gruffed, tossing a charred bit of hog-flesh beside him. 

The captive’s nose crinkled, and as the light hit his pearlescent eyes he let out a soft hiss and buried his head in between his arms. “My headdress,” he murmured. “Please.” 

Frun growled, dumbfounded by the captive Prince’s insolence. “Eat,” he growled again. When the prince made no motion to comply, he threw open the flap of the tent, letting the shelter flood with light. “Fine. Have it your way.” He stalked out. 

The shade came back to embrace the Prince, and he let out a sigh of relief, lifting his head once again. He stiffened a little when the flap opened and the light poured back in, bringing a in scowling Frun with it. In the warrior’s hand was a shred of woven wool. He reached down without a word and fastened the heavy cloth around Mata-u’s eyes. “There,” he said, tightening it with a nudge.

“Thank you,” Mata-u replied, dipping his head in a motion of gratitude. 

“EAT.” Frun grumped, pushing the blackened meat closer. 

Mata-u’s nose crinkled, and his hands wriggled against the ropes that were searing into his flesh. “I can’t,” he hissed. 

“Your mouth is not bound,” Frun spat back. “At least not yet.” 

Mata-u’s head lifted in dignified resistance. “I am not a boar,” he stated. “Unlike present company, apparently.” 

“You would do well to watch your words,” Frun growled, even as he produced a sharpened obsidian blade and slipped it between Mata-u’s wrists. He glared at the blindfolded man, as if burning his gaze into the covering so that Mata-u could feel it. “And if you try anything I will slit you from navel to nose. Or do you not know who I am?” 

“All too well,” Mata-u muttered. The ropes fell away, and he rubbed his raw skin. “Don’t worry. I would never leave my people.” 

Frun chuckled darkly at this, taking his place beside the captive and tearing off a piece of cooked meat for himself. “You ran from them with my horse just yesterday.” 

“It was not them I was running from,” Mata-u hissed. He felt along the hide covering for the scrap of meat, but found Frun’s calloused hand instead, offering it to him. He hesitated, then took the food gingerly, nodding his head in thanks. 

Frun stared in bewilderment as Mata-u bowed his head and pressed the meat to the ridge of his nose and murmured, “Xen da’yara re Tutelem, mondus fylin, w’tare, w’tu.” He paused with a sigh and began to eat.

“What did you just say?,” Frun demanded. 

“A prayer of thanks,” Mata-u said. “To the Great Creator for his food-Gift.” 

Frun snickered. “The Great Creator didn’t give you that food. I did.” 

“And where did you get it?,” asked Mata-u knowingly. 

Frun’s eyes flashed murderously, and he leaned in as he growled, jabbing his knife into the air for affect “From the belly of a black boar that dared cross my path.” 

“And where did he get his food, that he had the energy to be so defiant?” 

Frun blinked slowly, tilting his head curiously at the Prince. “What should I care?,” he sneered.

“You should care,” Mata-u murmured, unfazed. “For it is the Great Creator that provides food for the kill.” 

“And where was your Great Creator yesterday, when we decimated your people?” 

Mata-u froze, his nails digging into the blackened flesh. He opened his mouth, then closed it, working on his reply. “Thank you for the meal,” he muttered softly. 

Once the horses and the other captives were secured, the tents were rolled up and the party of Mountain Warriors and their spoils made the journey up the rocky cliff to the pass that would take them home. The spray from the roaring falls foamed over the path, and Frun inhaled deeply, straightening his back and reveling in the refreshing mist. Nearly home. He tugged on the new binds around his captive’s arms, this time tied meticulously, though not so tight. With any struggle or tug from their wearer, the binds would slowly tighten. It was the Prince’s choice, this way, if he would continue to disobey before he lost all feeling in his limbs. 

“Why do you do it?,” Mata-u asked again, softly, so as to cloak his words from any eavesdropper. The Great Skull Lord could save face in responding, not having to worry about his all-important appearance. 

“Do what.” Frun surveyed the land-bridge as they approached, and letting out a satisfactory grunt. One soldier went ahead with his horse, ensuring safe passage for the others. 

“The destruction. The war. Why do you do it?” 

“It is not destruction,” Frun muttered, whipping the reigns of his horse. The horse jutted and began a trot, moving steadily along the bridge. “Quite the opposite. What we “do”, Prince, is ORDER.” 

“It is not order to oppress those weaker than you,” Mata-u replied. 

“It is when the weak disobey.” 

Mata-u swallowed hard and balled his fists, holding his body away from the broad back of his captor, a look of disgust warping his face. “And what about you, Skull Lord? Have you never questioned the authority others have pressed upon you, despite your personal beliefs?” 

“Never,” Frun snapped, his frown deepening. “The idea of ‘self’ is detrimental to the Clan.” 

“Is that what they teach you?,” Mata-u hissed under his breath. “That ‘self’ is the downfall of civilization, not the beginning of it?” 

“Do all you Lake People tout such nonsense?” Frun fired back. He let out a snort and kicked his horse up into a gallant trot. “You are all fools, then. Deserving of your downfall.” 

“Fools, maybe,” Mata-u ground out, “but at least we are not brainwashed.” 

Frun and his captive landed quickly on the opposite side of the bridge and without warning, Frun knocked the sharp-tongued Prince to the ground. Mata-u landed with a groan onto his elbows in the grass as Frun pranced in a circle around him, raising his spear into the air. “Lake Tribe of Eil K’chan!” Frun beckoned, and his men stopped and the group of captives froze in their place among the rows of ropes binding their hands and feet. “Behold, your Crown Prince!” Frun dismounted, coming to hover over the man still crouched on the ground before him. He lowered the tip of his spear, jabbing it into the middle of Mata-u’s chest. His eyes snapped to one of his soldiers. “Take off his bindings,” he barked. 

“Xafu?,” the warrior said. 

“TAKE THEM OFF!,” Frun bellowed. 

Mata-u blinked under the blindfold as his ropes were loosened and fell to the ground. 

“Give him a weapon,” Frun said gruffly. 

“I'm not going to fight you so that you can prove some sort of point,” Mata-u said, even as he grasped the smooth blade of the obsidian knife. 

“I’m not giving you a choice,” Frun growled, lunging at him. 

Mata-u sprang out of the way faster than a lightning bolt, his leg sweeping underneath the ox-like warrior, bringing his feet over his head. The ground shook as he connected with the earth, flat onto his back. The soldiers gathered around, eyes wide with interest, as their fearless leader grappled with the royal captive. 

“You see? You are like me, your highness,” Frun barked. He rose to a crouch, his fingers grasping in the air, eyes burning with blood-lust. Mata-u responded with a jab of the knife, which was easily knocked out of his hand as he was dragged to the ground by his adversary. His shoulders scraped against the dirt as the wrapping over his eyes flew off, and he wrapped his long legs around the trunk of the Skull-Lord and quickly flipped him onto his back. 

Frun grabbed hold of Mata-u’s neck and squeezed as Mata-u’s fists pounded against his chest. He brought a leg up, sweeping the slender man underneath of him and pinning him with his mighty legs. 

“Stop!” Came a cry from the group of captives. 

Mata-u’s head tilted upward at the sound, and he ceased his struggle. 

“Your creator has either abandoned you,” Frun growled, hauling him up from his place on the ground and sheathing his blade, “or he doesn’t exist.

The trek up the mountains brought chilled temperatures that made Mata-u shiver. They pressed on and arrived at the cave entrance as the sunlight drained out of the sky, where they were greeted by armed guards who escorted the party into a large hall. Mata-u’s ‘spirit gaze’, as the Wise Woman had called it, made out the outline of towering statues of ancient warriors carved out of the rock, and long spikes wrapped in animal fat and dipped in honey and set aflame, illuminating the façade. A giant sat perched on a throne made of bones and glowered down at the party as they entered. 

“Welcome home, my warriors!,” his voice boomed and reverberated around the hall. He made a motion with his hand and several slaves approached to unburden the warriors of their horses and loot. 

“Your tribute, my Lord,” Frun said, motioning to the group of bound captives. He took a steep bow before the Mountain King. 

“And what of my old adversary, Ja’k of Eil K’chan?” 

“Dead,” Frun reported. “Run through with his own spear.” 

“Excellent!” The King’s bellowing laugh made Mata-u’s scowl deepen with rage. “Aaah,” his tone suddenly changing, the grin in his voice evident, he slid his gaze to the man perched atop Frun’s own steed. “And who is this, who stares at me with such…indignation?” 

“Ja’k’s son, Mata-u.” Frun loosened the strap anchoring Mata-u to the horse, giving it a tug and leading Mata-u down off the animal.

The giant’s eyes narrowed. “And why does the son of Ja’k the Lake King not grovel for his life? Does he not know I could have his throat slit with just one word?” 

“Not without the word from a Council of the People,” Mata-u corrected. 

The giant opened his gaping mouth again, letting out a laugh that echoed through the hollowed-out mountain. “’Council of the People’?,” he taunted. “My dear boy, I AM the council. Everything around you is owned, is controlled, by The Mountain King. We are a great nation, once scattered to the winds by the lesser tribes that controlled the fertile lands. My Father and his father before him brought them DOWN, under the control of the People of the Mountains. This, dear boy, is the House of the Gods.” 

“And from where does your food come? Your furnishings for the winter? Your fine beads for your women, the gold for your gauntlets or the feed for your stables? It comes from the backs of those people whom you call “lesser”!” 

“You, dear Mata-u, son of Ja’k, are swiftly earning your way to disembowelment,” the Mountain King ground out. “Or are you expecting leniency, due to your blindness?” 

Mata-u swallowed deeply, curling and uncurling his fists. “I expect nothing from the likes of YOU.” 

The Mountain King roared with laughter. “Haaaaha! HA! OH I think I like this one.” He rose from his throne, his booted footsteps thudding against the stone stairway as he descended. He lashed out a calloused hand, grasping the Prince’s chin and forcing his head back, inspecting the pearl-white eyes that flashed underneath heavy lashes. “Incredible,” he breathed, and Mata-u crinkled his nose. “His homeland has been wiped clean, his people and their little rebellion crushed, and yet, he does not waver.” 

“My King,” Frun offered, stepping cautiously forward. “What is your command?” 

The giant raised his furrowed brow, losing himself in the Prince’s eyes. They shone like the finest marble—statuesque, knowing—revealing none of their secrets. “At First Moon,” he declared finally, his voice booming. “We shall make him a tribute to The Goddess Dynrah.” He growled at the wave of wailing produced by the Prince’s followers and snapped orders at the soldiers to silence them . 

“You cannot do this!,” shouted Fogi, who was by far the most outspoken. 

“Frun,” The King commanded, paying no mind to the whimpering captives, “he is your charge. In two nights, he dies. If he escapes, it will be your head. Understood?” 

Frun nodded sharply, then slid a look over to Mata-u. For once, the Prince’s head hung low between his shoulders. 

* * * * * 

“Why do they bother bathing me?” 

Mata-u had counted the steps when he came to this room—a bathing chamber with a natural hot spring that bubbled up from the holes in the rocks. For a moment, he wished he could shrink down to the side of a bone-shard and slip away, in between the boulders. 

The women who bathed him were gentle and they giggled a lot—young slaves, he presumed, probably taken from their homelands by force, probably captives in a war won by the Great Skull Lord himself. 

“They do so to honor Dynrah,” came the muttered reply. From the back corner of the small cave, Frun sat, sharpening his spear between two slick pieces of obsidian. 

“And what is She to your people?,” Mata-u asked. 

“The Mother of all Warriors,” Frun said. 

“Of course,” Mata-u said under his breath. “And...what is She to you?” 

“What is your meaning?” 

“Surely you must pray and worship at Her altar, Great Skull Lord.” 

“Do not call me that,” Frun ground out. “You use the name as a mockery. At any rate, I have many altars of my own, built in my honor. Furnished with the bones of my enemies.” 

“Don’t worry,” Mata-u said, between moans as the servants caressed his aching back and shoulders, pouring perfumed oil down his chest and massaging it inward. “You shall get your revenge on me soon enough. I wonder…where will you put my skull, when it is yours to have?” 

“I…” Frun stuttered, his blade jutting across the spear-tip at an off angle, skidding to a stop. “I hadn’t considered it yet.” 

“Well I have,” Mata-u continued, unfazed. He relaxed into the bubbling water that claimed his aching muscles and turned him to jelly. “Aahhhh….I think I should like to be made into a chalice.” 

“Chalice?,” Frun muttered.

“Yes. A chalice. You could use my head-dress as ornamentation, if it didn’t get lost along the journey.” 

“You speak of your own mortality as if it does not frighten you,” Frun said softly, absentmindedly sucking away some dried blood from his knuckles.

“Oh it…it does. It frightens me very much. But it doesn’t help to whine about it. Besides, the Elders assured me that death is but a momentary pain. A bridge between this life and Paradise. Anyhow, about the chalice, I think it should have a handle made of pure gold, and—“ 

“I do not wish to discuss it further,” Frun barked. 

Mata-u blinked, tilting his head in the direction of the sulking war-lord. “Why not? We are not talking about your head, here, mind you.” 

“It…it bores me.” He tossed his head to the side as if spitting out bad water. 

“Of course,” Mata-u murmured, unconvinced. 

After the bath, there was no time to look for his fellow tribesman, and no available place to start looking. He was ushered into a small room, with a dirt floor and an uncomfortable rock shelf not large enough to sit on. 

Before he could enter his new lodgings, there was a sharp tug backward on his bicep and Mata-u glanced towards Frun. 

“What is this?” Frun spat, turning to the soldier who guarded the gate to the room. 

“His—The Prince’s cell, Xafu.” 

“Where are the trappings?” 

“Trappings?,” the soldier mumbled, blinking stupidly. 

“YES! The trappings—the furs, the pillows, the quilts! The furnishings fitting for a prisoner of his stature!” 

“Xafu, I—I was not made aware—that is—“ 

“It’s alright,” Mata-u said coolly. “This will do.”

“No it will not,” Frun snapped, unleashing a lion-like growl at the befuddled guard. “And your head will be my next ornament!” 

“Ye—Yes, Xafu.” The guard sputtered. 

Without another word, Mata-u was dragged off, further into the vast Mountain, with its channels and stair ways and decadent halls. Mata-u only needed to hear the echoes reverberating off the chamber peaks to fully grasp the magnitude and majesty of the architecture. He walked further than his recall would allow him to remember, and a lump grew the size of an oyster in his throat. 

Another long tunnel, and another cave, this one much smaller, so much so that Mata-u had to duck his head to enter. The room was warm with fire-light, and intimate—it didn’t have the mind-numbing echo of the other structures. His feet touched cool marble, at first, then further in, a woven rug. He reached his hand out, feeling along the wall and jumped a little when a hand found his.

“This way,” Frun murmured, his voice softer than before. He led Mata-u to a billowy, soft mound of furs and deer-skin, and Mata-u melted into them, forgetting caution for a moment. 

“Wow,” he breathed, running his hand along the bed. “This is…this is your...tent?” He cursed himself inwardly for not finding a better word for the place. 

“My…tent,” Frun echoed. “Yes.” 

“Huh.” Mata-u huffed, perking his head up to survey all the glorious, soft sounds and smells of the room. “I thought there would be…” 

“Let me guess,” Frun offered with a chuckle. “You expected skulls?” 

“Yes,” Mata-u admitted, cracking a slight grin. “But, tell me…what you did back there. Why would you..?” 

“I will be just outside,” Frun started, before Mata-u could complete his words. “If you need anything…” He bit his bottom lip in frustration, then furled his eyebrows, as if he had forgotten for a moment that he was indeed the Skull Lord. “Well. Just…don’t try anything foolish.” 

“Of course not,” Mata-u muttered, sinking into the bed. “Frun—?” He interjected just as the footsteps turned away. He felt the heat rush to his face as he scooted over on the lavish coverings. “Uh…it will be cold tonight and…and…” 

“The cave is warmth enough,” gruffed Frun. 

“Of course.” Mata-u slid his fingers over the raw skin on his wrists and frowned, his back stiffening. “That will be all.” With that, he turned to face the rock wall and hunkered down into the plush coverings.

“That will be--?” Frun muttered under his breath as he turned away. “’That will be all’, he says? “That will be all”. As if I am his manservant…” He went away grumbling, dragging a heavy fur behind him to the mouth of the room.

Mata-u was lighter than most on his feet. He heard sound before it passed through the ears of others. The day he had been blinded, his father brought him to the Woman of the Forest, who told him that what had seemed like a curse was actually a blessing. Mata-u could not understand it at first, as he struggled through his young life without sight. But the picture became clearer with every passing year—his perceptions and abilities soon surpassed those of his peers, and soon he was fishing in the stream with his father, shooting a bow and arrow, and even hunting horseback in the forest. 

He took a step off of the plush bed, his toes curling expertly into the woolen rug beneath, anchoring his every move, careful not to make a sound. He masked his breathing, pulling the woolen band over his mouth and lightly stepping down with the other foot. He crossed the room in whip-like strides, cutting through the air like a knife so that even the dust of the air was not moved. He crept ever-closer to the sleeping form lying hunched under the heavy bear-skin. Mata-u used his senses to gauge the distance before stepping over the body. 

A fist like a downed tree-limb wrapped around his ankle, pulling him fast to the ground. 

He clawed at the harsh stone underneath of him as a heavy body lunged on top. “Tell me you are not that stupid,” came the dark growl. 

Mata-u brought his foot up and it connected with the side of Frun’s face, jolting him backward into the stone. 

Frun sprang forward, digging his blade into the gaping cut on Mata-u’s ankle, and Mata-u let out a shriek and collapsed on the ground. “Let me go,” he hissed.

“Tell me you weren’t going to attempt escape,” Frun dragged on, hoisting a shocked Mata-u up onto his shoulders and carrying him back to the pile of furs.

“I had to try,” Mata-u shot back unapologetically. “Your people are monsters!” 

“And yours are cowards.” 

Mata-u landed on the bed with a sharp grunt, clutching the gash in his ankle that ran red with blood. 

“Hold still,” Frun muttered, tearing off a strip of deer-hide from his boots and wrapping it around Mata-u’s wound. “Idiot.” 

“You are no better,” Mata-u spat, wrenching out of Frun’s reach as soon as the band was tied. “You kill and you murder and you don’t think twice about the consequences.” Hot tears stung his pale eyes, threatening to roll down his cheeks. 

“Your people are to blame!,” Frun barked. “Do you think I enjoy bloodying the soil of your homeland? Risking my throat every time I go to war with yet another tribe…another ignorant clan who refuses to pay homage to the Mountain King?” 

“You are not his pawn.” Mata-u shook his head slowly. “Oh, no. You are not that. I am blind, but I am not dumb, Skull Lord.” 

“I told you not to call me that—“ 

“And what of it?!,” Mata-u taunted, throwing his head straight up with all the pomp and authority of a god. “You are just a glorified foot-soldier. It is like being the victor of a mud-match. You don’t have noble blood. You were never born to lead. No, no! You were born to serve! And you do a good job of serving, little soldier. Yes. A good job of doing exactly as you are told and not thinking for yourself—“ 

A firm backhand lit up the side of his face and stung all the way down his neck. His mouth flew open as the heat spread up his cheeks, and then he realized the heat was not just coming from the blow. Frun was leaning inward, his broad chest connecting with Mata-u’s, his warm breath beading on the surface of Mata-u’s lips. A long exhale rolled out as Frun pressed his lips to Mata-u’s, his nose curling as he did so, into a gruff kiss that had Mata-u's head reeling.

“Then teach me,” he hissed.


	3. art

[](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/Eil%20Kchan_zpsjcbmofbt.jpg.html)


	4. Unworthy Sacrifice

 

Mata-u tried to back away, his senses muddled. His shoulders brushed against the stone wall but Frun followed, the bone shards that hung around his neck pressing into Mata-u’s chest. Mata-u’s hands came up to the feel the face of the man who had killed hundreds, if not thousands. His mouth dropped open as his fingertips sloped across Frun’s forehead, down the jagged ridge of his nose, over his closed eyelids, his cheeks, and finally, to his lips. They were wide, too, and parted slightly, his breath warm and ragged. Just a man—handsome, no doubt—but a man, still. Not the monster of legend.

 

Frun’s teeth bit down lightly on Mata-u’s thumb, drawing it into his mouth and sucking greedily. Mata-u jumped at the sudden wetness, his own heart thrumming in his chest. “Wait,” he managed. Frun froze in his place, one knee up on the bed, one foot dangling off the floor. When the Prince didn’t continue, however, he sprang onto the bed and crouched halfway on top of him. Mata-u shoved Frun’s chest. “Wait!,” he commanded again.

 

“You speak of personal passions, yet you do nothing to act on them,” Frun murmured, tearing the woolen cloth away from Mata-u’s head. His eyelashes fluttered as he tried to adjust to the light spilling into his senses. “You spit on those who choose to follow and yet carve your own path, to your own detriment. Well, Prince? Which is it? Am I to follow my head…?” His hands flew to his loin cloth, ripping the scrap of leather away to reveal his manhood. “…or my heart?”

 

“I’m pretty sure you following something else right now,” Mata-u muttered in response, half-distracted by having to shield his eyes even in the torch-light of the room.

 

“And if I am?” Frun grabbed ahold of Mata-u’s uninjured leg, throwing his thighs apart with vicious accuracy.

 

“Then you would be exerting your will over others,” Mata-u countered, blocking Frun’s hand as he went for his coverings. Frun laid him flat with a frustrated growl, covering the lanky warrior’s body with his own, pressing his weight on top of him. Mata-u responded with a firm back-hand, doing his best to ignore the searing pain when Frun grabbed his aching wrist. “Are you no better than an animal, or are you just that dense?!”

 

Since Frun was obviously past the point of reason, Mata-u decided a firm kick would do him justice and did just that, sending the undefeated war-god flat to the floor, his legs splaying out beneath him. “Ingrate!,” Frun hissed.

 

“I take it you don’t get rejected much,” Mata-u muttered.

 

Frun spent a few moments on the floor, brooding over his injured pride, before slipping his loincloth back on and joining Mata-u on the bed.

 

“What are you doing?,” Mata-u asked cautiously.

 

Frun unwound a coil of strong rope, securing it first to Mata-u’s wrists then binding it tight to one of his own. “Well, it seems you are not to be trusted to refrain from escaping, even if it means your life.”

 

“It means my life either way, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Frun grumbled. “But it is up to you whether you die with honor or a with spear in your back.”

 

“You weren’t going to kill me.”

 

“Not I, but one of the other guards.” Frun’s voice was softer, now. “They would have brought you down without hesitation.”

 

Mata-u shook his head. “No, I mean, back there. Back at the River.”

 

A low growl rumbled in Frun’s throat. “I should have,” he spat, punching the plush coverings before wriggling down on top of them. “Had I known it would have spared me such grief.”

 

With Frun facing away, Mata-u felt free to roll his eyes. He tugged at the ropes knotting his hands together and pouted when they held fast. He flopped back down beside his unwelcome bed-partner and let out a long sigh, closing his eyes and drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

Frun was ordered to bring Mata-u into the feast hall early the next morning. The presence of the Goddess’ sacrifice was to grace each meal on Tribute-Day. The Mountain King himself rose from his place when Frun led the Crown Prince into the hall, bowing low. He extended his hand, palm-up, and Frun grabbed Mata-u’s wrist, holding it out.

 

“He needs to take your hand,” Frun murmured into Mata-u’s ear.

 

The Mountain King’s hand covered Mata-u’s completely, and the captive Prince had to fight back the urge to pull away. Suddenly, a sharp sting rang through his senses and he cried out. The grip was vice-like as he struggled to free himself from the searing pain and the wet warmth. The blood trickled into the cup in the King’s hand, mixing with the mead and turning it a mulberry-red. Without a word, he released his terrified prisoner and let out a satisfied groan as he lifted the cup to his lips and downed it in a few smooth gulps.

 

“Please. Sit.” The Mountain King gestured to the place beside him, a woolen pillow filled with dried foliage for padding.

 

Frun helped Mata-u to the pillow, sliding a cautious look over at his King before joining them both on the floor.

 

Lavished sumptuously upon the solid marble table were delicacies whose fragrance drifted up Mata-u’s nostrils and which he could make out singly;  fish of all species, charred black boar ornamented with thorn-berries, grapes presented on gigantic jungle leaves, a rainbow of different-flavored meads.

 

“Tell me, Prince,” The King began, delicately plucking a grape from its vine and popping it into his mouth, “was it you who brought this shame upon your people? For such a long-standing…relationship …between our two tribes to be brought to such an unfortunate end?”

 

“My people grew tired of your will being forced upon them,” Mata-u hissed.

 

The King’s eyebrows raised in delighted intrigue. “Growing tired of paying our duties is much akin to tiring of serving the gods. It is the human condition. Yet, without these small tokens of gratitude to our betters, the balance would be broken and chaos would ensue. As your…people…discovered the day they dared to stand against me.” He bit off another grape, studying the blank face of is captive satisfactorily. “Yes. It is a pity that such a fine specimen be sacrificed to our goddess. Perfect despite of your obvious imperfections.”

 

Mata-u jumped when he felt a rough hand tug at the scrap of cloth over his eyes. He bit down on his lip.

 

“Were you born with such an unfortunate defect?”

 

“It is not a defect,” he ground out. “It is simply a difference.”

 

“’Difference’….’Defect’…” The King muttered, chasing the grapes down with a tall goblet of honey-mead. “It was an accident, then?”

 

“Yes,” Mata-u replied hesitantly. “My father and I were fishing one day and…” Suddenly, a conversation yards away entered his ears and snagged his attention. It was a group of guards, the same men who had come down with the Skull Lord and wrecked havoc on his people. They were murmuring, very low, harsh whispers, in the very back corridor of the hall.

 

                                                                                                                                       “Tonight, Xafu says.”

 

                                                                                                                                       “Tonight?”

 

                                                                                                                                       “Yes, during the Sacrifice to Dynrah.”

 

                                                                                                                                       “You are sure of this.”

 

“Yes. The Skull Lord tires of the meaningless killing. Dacu and I will be waiting at the bottom steps while you and Xafu ascend. He says to have your blades sharpened and your spear at the ready in case there is an uprising.”

 

                                                                                                                                       “Very well. Tell Xafu his men are ready.”

 

“Prince?,” The Mountain King asked, snapping Mata-u back to the situation at present.

 

“Ah…” Mata-u chewed on his lip as he hashed out a reply. “I apologize. It seems my memory escapes me.”

 

“That’s quite understandable, considering the circumstances.” The giant simply towered over Mata-u, casting a dark shadow even from his crouched position. He flashed a cold grin down at the blindfolded Prince and pushed a slice of naked fruit into the injured palm of his hand. “Please. Eat.”

 

Mata-u took the fruit, wincing as the juice dribbled into his cut, but forced a grateful smile, raising the food to his forehead and murmuring, “Xen da’yara re Tutelem, Mondus Fylin, w’tare, w’tu.”

 

“What is it he is saying?” The King’s eyes slid to Frun.

 

“It is a Prayer of Thanks to his god,” Frun explained.

 

“I see.” The King smiled in feigned admiration. “Such a quaint, simple-minded people.”

 

Mata-u ignored the jab. “I would be so bold as to make a request,” he piped up, between bites. The fruit was sweet and the juice soothed his parched throat.

 

“Anything.”

 

“Let me see my people, if only for a few moments. To console them.  To ask…” Mata-u swallowed hard, glad for the blindfold that concealed the tears smattering his eyes. “…to ask forgiveness.”

 

The Mountain King breathed in deeply, pausing for a long moment as he considered. Finally, he spoke. “You are their Sovreign,” he said, dumfounded. “What need have you of their forgiveness?”

 

“That is the difference between you and I.” The Prince’s back straightened, tilting his head as if to gaze at the towering man. “I am a true Sovreign. You are just a tyrant.”

 

* * * * *

 

Fogi could not bear the sack-cloth any longer. He had been stripped of the fine Preistly robes of his tutelage, the feathered headdress, the beads in his hair, the three-toned leather sandals. Over his slightly rounded belly was draped a gauze-like cloth that barely covered his posterior and was secured around his waist with a simple woolen belt. If not for the bright red Tattoos that peaked out under the cheap getup, nobody would even know he was a lake tribesman, let alone a shaman’s acolyte.

 

“Hold my sword, boy,” the warrior beside him—presumably, his new “master”—said, shoving the heavy blade at him.

 

Fogi jumped and glared at the warrior. “Most certainly not! I am Fogi Eventrey, Priest-in-Training and an acolyte of the Witch-Doctor Frey-Dyn. I have taken an oath never to touch an instrument of war!”

 

The warrior shoved the blade towards him, a silent, steely glare in his eyes. “Hold. My. Sword.”

 

Fogi swallowed and reluctantly grasped the suede-wrapped blade, looking about nervously.

 

“Gimrin,” said another warrior, peering his head around the corner. “The King has ordered an assembly of all the Lake People in the Communal Hall.”

 

“Now?!” The fellow Mountain Tribesman huffed.

 

“Yes, now.”

 

Fogi was led harshly into the Great Hall with the others, every person looking as lost and confused as the next. They had all been stripped of their regalia—the proud heritage of the Lake People now diminished to the markings on their skin, which were mostly hidden under tattered cloth. There, standing amongst them, hands bound firmly in front, their beloved Lake Prince stood guarded on either side by the Mountain King himself, and the notorious Skull Lord. “Prince,” Fogi breathed. Before his master could stop him, he dropped to both knees on the ground and bowed his head low., hands splayed in front of him.

 

Mata-u smiled softly, sadly, scooping down to take Fogi’s sweet face in his tied hands. “Hello, my friend.”

 

Fogi threw his arms shamelessly around his Prince in a desperate embrace. “I thought I would never see you again!”

 

“I know,” Mata-u said, burying his chin in Fogi’s shoulder.

 

“What have they done to you?” Fogi suddenly peeled himself away, holding Mata-u at arm’s length, looking him over. “Are they feeding you? Treating you well? Are you okay?”

 

“I was about to ask you the same.”

 

“Well,” Fogi said, his eyes flitting around the large hall. “It’s not Utopia Falls, but…” his voice drifted off into bitter-sweet laughter.

 

“I need you to do something for me,” Mata-u uttered lowly. He pulled Fogi into another embrace and Fogi felt a soft scrap of cloth being pushed into the palm of his hand. Fogi blinked, but took the scrap and quickly rolled it into the band of his plain robe. “Take good care of yourself, understood?”  

 

Fogi’s mouth drifted open, but he quickly regained his composure and stiffened his lip, nodding back. “Yes.”

 

* * * * *

 

Frun and his party set out that afternoon, with Mata-u in tow, heading down the craggy rocks that spilled from the mouth of the mountain, to a glittering waterfall that opened into a cold spring beneath it. “Go on ahead,” Frun ordered his men. “And do not disturb us.”

 

Mata-u straightened his back and scowled a little, suddenly cautious. “I find it fascinating that your King allows you to take his sacrifice past the gates on the day of the ritual.”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself, highness,” Frun said, tugging sharply in the direction he wanted Mata-u to go. They were now separated from the group of soldiers, who headed down the rocky ravine to the mouth of the fountain. Loud splashes ensued as they bathed. “You go where I want you to go. And no man has ever escaped my grasp.”

 

“What is this?”, Mata-u asked, his face betraying him to the wonder he smelled/felt/heard.

 

“This is my land,” Frun said, with emphasis on the ‘my’. “My father and his father’s before.”

 

“It’s beautiful,” Mata-u breathed, letting the cool spray from the water dot his face. “But I thought all land belonged to your Mountain King.”

 

 Frun didn’t answer, instead helping Mata-u climb the top of a steep hill, overlooking the craggy rock. “Feel,” he beckoned softly, leading Mata-u’s bound hands down to the ground. A line of pebbles and rocks broke up the soft grassy ground, the surface of the stones smoothed by use over time and embedded into the soft soil.

 

Mata-u tilted his head, intrigued. “What is this?” 

 

“A path,” Frun said. “My father’s 13th great-grandfather labored for 184 seasons [*about 46 years] laying it. A day’s journey would bring the man that followed it to Tata-Ma’k, the Tribe of the Ocean.”

 

“What—?” Mata-u breathed, his face meeting Frun’s. His free hand went to Frun’s face, feeling his features for the expression of the warrior’s—sad, soft, complacent. “I thought the Mountain Tribe was a bane to all peoples. Why would they…your family…have a path built connecting the two tribes?”

 

Frun shook his head softly. “I am not of the Mountain,” he murmured.

 

Mata-u cocked his head curiously.

 

“The Mountain King demands Tribute in all different forms. For the Tata-Ma’k, it is their first-born sons.”

 

“You’re an Ocean-child,” Mata-u breathed, sweeping a tendril of black hair from Frun’s face.

 

Frun straightened up, clearing his throat and staring down the craggy path of stones. “This path was here long before the mountain people.” He looked back behind him for a brief moment before slipping blade between Mata-u’s bindings and cutting them free.

 

“I…I don’t understand,” Mata-u said under his breath.

 

Frun shrugged, letting the blade fall to the ground and standing so that there was a good distance between them. “It is quite simple,” he stated, too matter-of-factly. “You are not a worthy sacrifice for our great goddess.”

 

“I’m—I’m not?” Mata-u blinked slowly, lowering the band around his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

 

“You are no warrior,” Frun gruffed, his back set firmly against a boulder, watching as his men, no more than black specks in his vision, continued with their baths below. “Gods knows if I wanted to, I could have slain you where you stood, several times in fact. And you are of the lake-tribes, not a noble warring clan. No, you simply will not do.”

 

Now it was Mata-u’s turn to growl. He willed himself to mute the anger he felt boiling inside of him and stood up. “I know what you are planning,” he spat. “Tonight, at the ritual.”

 

Frun’s eyes flew up as he attempted to mask the look of surprise now crossing his face. “That is none of your concern.”

 

“My people are still in there!,” Mata-u snapped. “I will not run with my tail between my legs while they are yet held prisoner.”

 

Frun let out a deflated laugh and crossed his arms. “Stubborn,” he muttered. “I forgot to add stubborn.”

 

“Frun,” Mata-u murmured his name and the warrior’s head turned, his expression softening. “I can help you defeat the Mountain King. We can…we can do it, together.”

 

“Don’t need your help,” he grumbled. He wrinkled his nose at the gentle touch of the Prince’s palm resting on his cheek-bone and grunted a little.

 

Mata-u leaned in, taking in Frun’s heady scent—all deer-skin and pine-needles and ash. “I know,” he murmured. Frun grasped Mata-u’s hand, bringing it to rest on his chest. Mata-u’s mouth parted, mesmerized by the steady thrumming of Frun’s heartbeat, matching feeling to the sound. Frun’s fingers released, and Mata’u stayed.

 

Mata-u splayed his fingers wide, sliding over the soft dusting of hair between Frun’s pectorals, hearing the bone fragments clack together as he jutted up against them. His hand drifted lower, and he could pick up a design marring the warrior’s skin—embedded under the flesh, a raised pattern revealed itself. Mata-u’s eyes flashed, his fingers fluttering over the design.

 

Frun attempted in vain to mask a deep groan.

 

“It’s…” Mata-u’s voice fell as he followed the long, jagged teeth of the design down to Frun’s navel. “It’s a skull?”

 

 “Yes.” Frun moaned, mashing their mouths together. Mata-u gave a little squeak as the Sull-Lord’s tongue slipped between his lips.  

 

“Mhh,” he whimpered, his hands fluttering up to Frun’s chest, switching between pushing him away and pulling him in closer, yanking on the bone necklace that rattled happily as Frun slid his weight down on top of him, lying them flush with the grass. The war-lord’s hands were calloused and hard and swept up over Mata-u’s legs, parting them with feverish skill, rutting in between them. Frun’s long, throbbing cock was let loose with a flick of his wrist, the deerskin loin-cloth melting away. “Wait,” Mata-u urged, squirming underneath his captor, breaking off the kiss. 

 

Frun only growled harder, his eyes rolling back into his head as he bit down on the soft flesh of the Prince’s neck. “Not this again,” he grunted against Matt’s cinnamon-sweet skin.  

 

“Your men…they’re watching,” Mata-u grumbled, looking away.  “I can feel them staring.”

 

“They are too far to see anything,” Frun countered, dipping his head down, biting his collarbone, drawing skin into his mouth and sucking possessively.

 

Mata-u wanted to protest, but his body was practically singing for Frun’s masterful touch. Already, his cock was aching to be let out of its deerskin cage, and Frun’s fingers lit firelight over his skin. His mouth fell open, his head rolled back, auburn hair spilling out onto the grass.

 

“Xafu!” One of the warriors charged up the hill and towards the pair at break-neck speed, earning himself a murderous glare from his leader.

 

“Gods!,” Frun cursed. He shielded Mata-u, curling one arm over the Prince’s face. “What is it?”

 

“Sorry, Xafu…” The warrior blinked in slight surprise at the scene he had stumbled upon, taking in a long swallow.

 

“This had better be important, for it is worth your neck on a pike,” Frun added gruffly.

 

“The King requests your presence,” he choked out.

 

The warlord’s brow furrowed and Mata-u sat up, sensing the change in Frun’s heartbeat.

 

“A-and yours.” The warrior added, glancing down at the Prince.

 

The hall was completely empty, save for the looming figure seated on the giant carved throne and the two guards posted at either side, and even they were ordered away by the flick of the giant’s hand. “Leave us,” he bellowed.

 

“You beckoned, my Lord?” Frun began, kneeling before his King. Mata-u listened to his heart pounding away against his ribs.

 

“Yes,” the King mused, twirling a scrap of cloth around his fingers. “This was found on one of our new slaves this afternoon, shortly after the Prince’s sweet goodbye.”

 

“A rag?,” Frun asked, incredulous.

 

The King cracked a devious smile. “Yes, my simple-minded subject, a rag. A rag with a very intriguing note scrolled on it in Lake-speech. Now, I would ask our esteemed Prince to translate. But, of course, he cannot read the written word due to his…unfortunate circumstance. Can you, your Highness?”

 

Frun cast an inquisitive glance at Mata-u, whose frigid stare stayed firmly planted on the grinning God-King.

 

“Perhaps I should have your chubby little priest-friend translate—“

 

“NO!” Mata-u barked so loud it reverberated against the walls. “I can read it, you murderous bastard!,” he said, defeated.

 

The King cocked an eyebrow and threw the scrap down. “By all means.” Mata-u followed the scrap down to the floor, his ears honing in on the faint fluttering sound it made as it dropped. He plucked it from the ground, balling it into a tight fist as the King glowered down at him. “It would seem, dear Prince, that you have many hidden talents.”

 

“The note,” Frun said, a little too harshly, “What is written on it?” 

 

“It says that my men should be ready,” Mata-u blurted out proudly, “But you already knew that, great Mountain King.”

 

“Of course,” Keppin admitted with the slow nod of his head. “The question is, what were you readying them for?” He chuckled in amusement. “Surely not some type of escape?”

 

“Would it seem so outlandish?”

 

The Great Mountain King leaned back in his rocky throne and perched his chin on a balled-up hand. “Espionage seems beneath you, even for a little Lake Prince. But no matter.”  A wave of his hand brought a troupe of leather-clad warriors out from the shadows. Dragged into the center of the room, bound in an intricate line of ropes and scraps of leather, were the 36 surviving lake people who had survived the trip up the Mountain with their Prince.

 

Mata-u’s eyes flashed as he easily recognized the frantic heartbeats of his people. “What is this?,” He barked at the glowering King.

 

“We will have a glorious sacrifice to the Goddess Dynrah.”

 

“My King,” The Skull Lord cautiously spoke up, shifting glances between the rival royals. “These servants are not warriors, they—“

 

“They became warriors the moment they decided to defy me. They will make a spectacle more than fitting in the eyes of our God-Queen.” His gaze shifted upwards to the soldiers binding the weeping lake-people in their place. “Prepare them for the altar!” As the people were dragged away, he glared with a dark grin down at the captive Prince. “I have bigger plans for _you_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. The Lament of the Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frun looked down, eyes wide, to stare at the blade that protruded from his stomach. “Pathetic little ocean-child,” The King rumbled above him. He shoved the blade deeper and Frun ground a cry from between clenched teeth. “You would have never been a match for the Mountain-King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so two things. No, three things. 
> 
> 1) Please don't hurt me  
> 2) Yes there is a major character death  
> 3) No it's not who you think it is so please don't hurt me!

Between the echo of drums pounding far too close to his head for comfort and the tightness of the ropes that burned into his wrists, Fogi’s day was quickly going from bad to worse. He strained against the solid metal loop that suspended his arms far above his head and tested the shackles at his feet with a kick. They were stuck fast, and so was he. “No, no, no, no no no no…” The word became a desperate plea, the pitch rising higher and higher until the butt of a spear jabbed into his solar plexus made him let out an undignified squeak.

 

“ _Quiet,_ worm!” The guard hissed. Colorful feathers and thick black war-paint took the place plain animal skin, making the growling warrior appear even more ferocious.

 

“Owh,” Fogi murmured, settling into his signature pout, since there was obviously nothing he could do about his current predicament. Lined up among his fellow tribespeople, they encircled a large raised platform that had been cut out of the rock. The mouth of the mountain opened at its center to reveal a gurgling pool of lava beneath, sending up ash and steam into the stale air, making it unbearably hot.

 

The drums grew louder with the blaring of ceremonial horns as the Mountain people piled in, presumably to watch the proceedings. Fogi took a deep breath and swallowed, perturbed, even in these his final moments, to note young children among the crowd. Apparently, the Mountain Tribe viewed copious amounts of blood and gore as a family affair. His eyes flew left, then right to glance at the desperate, terrified faces of his kinsmen before fluttering his eyes closed, chin to his chest, and whispering “Great Goddess Sarir, please let their death be swift, and let us be joined quickly to the side of our ancestors’.”

 

In all his pomp, dressed in a thousand black and white furs with a circle of flame dancing around his head, the Mountain King entered. Fogi didn’t bother to hold back his snarl, though neither the King or the hundred warriors flanking him seemed to notice or care. The women in particular started sobbing uncontrollably, pulling against their bindings and even the men—brave, stoic warriors—barked out curses and empty threats before being brought under control by the loud cracks of hide on flesh.

 

The King entered the platform, slipping off his mighty robe to step bare-footed into the circle. He peered behind him, a satisfactory smile pulling at the edges of his mouth as he glanced into the bubbling red lake below. He stretched outward each arm like the trunk of a mighty tree, and the drums came to an abrupt stop.

 

The sizzle of the burning lake below was the only sound.

 

“We are strong!” The King’s voice boomed. The mountain shuddered and Fogi’s eyes fluttered open slightly, just enough to gaze at the massive crowd that seemed to have come from nowhere. There were eyes glistening in the light of the fire, from caves hidden high in the recesses of the mountain’s walls. “We are powerful!,” The King went on. “We are the greatest clan there has ever been or ever will be. The Earth-God Ly’tonwai and his wife, the Fire-Goddess Ceisi, have secured our future glory! Because we are faithful to serve them and their children. Because we are good, trustworthy stewards of this land. But…faith and trust are sacrifices, just as the gods themselves require sacrifice. These lives will be a small token of our gratitude to Dynrah, the Warrior-Goddess, their daughter. ”

 

The King then lowered both hands to his side, nodding to a shadow hovering in the darkness. The figure moved forward, draped in a red garment that was slick and filmy and burned like the fire itself. “Prince,” Fogi breathed. The next sound he made was a low growl when he noted the cursed Skull-Lord following close behind, a hand on Mata-u’s back, leading him forward. Mata-u’s head moved in Fogi’s direction, a single nod as recognition having to suffice.

 

A few well-paced strides from there swallowed up the distance between the two monarchs, and the King grabbed Matau’s bindings without warning, throwing him forward into the circle with a firm tug. Mata-u’s feet came out from under him, lunging just in time to catch himself without falling over.

 

“Stop!,” Fogi cried out. “You filthy coward!”

 

He cringed as the warrior beside him raised is staff, but the King barked out, “NO!” And the whole scene fell still. “That _little fool_ is a sacrifice to our great God and Goddess. Let him chose if he will make a fool of himself in his final moments. I would expect nothing else from a mere student to a Water-Priestess.”

 

“Fogi, please be still,” The Prince requested. If he was afraid, his regal expression didn’t show it. He stared straight towards the direction of the King, neither bowing his head or turning away, his eyes hidden by a scrap of matching cloth as the robe draped over his shoulders. “My sweet friend, if we are to perish here, then I would have you know that I am proud to perish with you. Together.”

 

“That is so sweet,” The King cooed mockingly, one ringed finger jutting out to run down the side of his face. Mata-u threw his head away from the touch, but a hand pressed firm to his cheek.

 

Fogi glanced a look at Frun’s face—his expression was unchanged except for the slice of his bottom lip that was stuck under his teeth, a small slit broken and bleeding.

 

Keppa-un raised his head again to address the crowd. “But it is not just a sacrifice we witness today, my subjects.”

 

The Prince’s head tilted a bit, a confused expression marring the lines of his face.

 

“No, today we shall also see…” The King’s hand wrapped around the Prince’s bindings, bringing the captive forward nearly into his chest. “A marriage.”

 

* * * * *

 

Frun stiffened, the blood seizing in his veins. His hand went instinctively to his thigh, only to remember he had left his sword in his barracks at the King’s command. “My King—“

 

Kepp-Ahun whirled on the bewildered warrior, bellowing, “DON’T “MY KING” ME! Do you honestly think I didn’t notice the way you took to him, the way you look at him, this—pathetic Lake Prince—I will use him as a reminder to you to always know your place. You have defied me for the last time, Skull-Lord.”

His massive grip closed around Mata-u’s tightly-wound ponytail, forcing his head back and pulling downward still.

 

“Mhh---“ Mata-u collapsed to his knees in front of the King, his face twisting in pain.

 

“You might not be able to see,” Kepp-Ahun snarled, tearing away the scrap of cloth from the Prince’s eyes. “But _he_ can. And I want him to watch your face as you take my name…” The towering giant snapped the fingers of his free hand and servants rushed forward, methodically unfolding the animal skin covering his waist. It fell away, revealing the king’s nakedness and the stiffening trunk that hung between his legs. “…And my cock.”

 

“Get away from him!!!” Fogi was practically screaming now, thrashing his body against the constricting binds. “You are unworthy! You have no right to touch him!”

 

“Isn’t it a fitting gesture,” Kepp-Ahun murmured, as if it were just between himself and the Prince.  Wide, calloused fingers made their way under Mata-u’s chin, lifting his head. “To let your people live long enough to see their beloved leader so utterly disgraced.” The hand traveled to the back of Mata-u’s neck and thrusted his face forward, steadying him as his other hand lifted the head of his cock level to Mata-u’s clenched teeth. “Bite down, and it’ll be your death.”

 

“My King…” Mata-u mumbled, arching his back to escape the intrusion of the swollen shaft now prodding against his lips. “A bit of warning before we proceed…”

 

Kepp-Ahun rolled his eyes, letting out an impatient groan. “What?”

 

“The next time you subdue an enemy…” Mata-u’s legs flew out from beneath him, sweeping in one movement in a powerful semi-circle, connecting with the King’s mighty legs and sending him toppling down. “You might want to bind their legs, too!”

 

He easily rolled out of the King’s reach as an angry arm came down and clawed at only dirt. “FRUN!,” The King commanded. “Seize the prisoner!”

 

“Of course, my liege,” Frun said cooly, turning in one fluid motion and relieving a guard of his weapon.

 

The King’s eyes snapped upward at the feel of a cold steel blade against his throat. “You insolent FOOL…what is the meaning of this?”

 

Guards were instantly upon the scene, spears pointed at the usurpers, with not one daring to go further, fearing the Skull-Lord’s deadly aim as much as the King’s wrath. Frun’s eyes darted wildly as Mata-u stood to his feet, his back pressed against that of the expert warrior’s. “Do they look angry?,” Mata-u asked.

 

Frun didn’t bother answering. “My men are just outside those doors,” Frun stated, nodding his head towards the exit. “I have done nothing to the King—not yet. If you harm me, they have orders to harm _you.”_

 

A dark chuckle came from the ground. The King wiped a streak of blood across his face with this arm and pressed the open palm of his hand against the blade. “You are a bigger fool than I imagined. Why would they listen to you?”

 

“Because I have followed them into many battles,” Frun muttered, not bothering to turn his gaze to the King. “And you have merely _sent_ them to fight yours.”

 

The King let out a roar, launching himself up from the ground and slamming his whole weight into the pair, knocking Frun to the ground and clawing a hold of the red garment around Mata-u’s shoulders. The cloth tore and Mata-u floated away underneath of it, coming to a stand-still at the entrance to the circle, his back to the gasping crowd. The King leveled his burning glare at the warrior beneath him. “My sword!” He bellowed.

 

A servant scampered quickly past the staff-wielding guards and hefted the massive, tarnished blade into the King’s hand. The sword came roaring down without warning, connecting with a loud “CLANG” on the stone as Frun rolled away. He grinned back at the King as he rose to his feet and leveled his own weapon. A silent moment passed between the two as one pair of eyes stared down the other, exchanging with murderous glances their intent.

 

The King lunged first, the behemoth piece of metal soaring up into the air and coming down on Frun’s much lighter blade. Frun groaned against the weight as he threw him off and sliced through a layer of flesh on the King’s thigh.

 

Kepp-Ahun held a steady hand up towards the guards that advanced warily. “No! You will not intervene. You know the Law of the Mountain.” He inspected the seeping wound with a grimace, his dark eyes following the Skull-King as he circled around.

 

“That is surprisingly honorable of you,” Frun said. He glanced at Mata-u, hoping for a moment that the Prince would be smart enough to sneak back into the shadows and escape. The groans and cries of the Prince’s bound tribesman dashed his hopes. He would not leave his people behind. His eyes locked on to the Mountain King’s hastily, determined to keep his attention focused on him alone. “I would have thought you’d have called your lackeys to your side.” He added, with a grin, “Not that it would have changed the outcome.”

 

“Such confindence,” The King taunted. A downward swing caught Frun’s blade just above the hilt, digging into the soft animal-skin covering mere centimeters from his fingers. It stuck fast to the ancient stone slab, and either man grunted and groaned as they pulled, each desperate to free his blade from the other’s.

 

“Frun!,” came a call from outside the circle. A long spear sailed inward, clattering to the ground at Frun’s feet. He threw a glance between it and his trapped sword and rolled away, clutching the spear in his hand as he barely escaped the slicing motion of King’s newly-freed sword.

 

“How sweet.” Kepp-Ahun spat at the ground in disgust. “It seems you have gained the whelp’s loyalty. I wonder, O Mighty Skull-King…do you suppose he knows…” Another slice swung, this one aimed at Frun’s stomach. “That it was you who felled his father?!”

 

* * * * *

 

Mata-u’s heart froze in his chest. His head tried telling his heart not to be so shocked—that Frun was a killer and a war-king and was following orders. None of it registered. The feeling of weight of his father’s lifeless body sagging in his arms returned, the smell of the blood and the soot and the fire still permeating his senses. He stumbled backward, shaking his head slowly.

 

Frun’s heartbeat had changed—the rushed, erratic pace of a man fighting for his life was replaced with a slowing, thrumming beat. Frun exhaled loudly, slowly. “Mata-u…” His mouth fell open as if waiting for the rest of the words to come, as if he could pull an adequate answer from the heavens. “Mata-u, you must understand—I—“His words were interrupted by a blood-curdling roar, followed by the wet, thick sound of a heavy blade being driven through bone and muscle.

 

Frun looked down, eyes wide, to stare at the blade that protruded from his stomach. “Pathetic little ocean-child,” The King rumbled above him. He shoved the blade deeper and Frun ground a cry from between clenched teeth. “You would have never been a match for the Mountain-King.”

 

“Frun…” Mata-u could only murmur as the sound of a falling body on stone reached his ears, the heartbeat speeding up to a rapid, thready pace.

 

Frun collapsed, the blade still embedded in his side, grasping at the hilt in a disbelieving daze.

 

“Xafu!” The voices of his men rang out throughout the halls, their heavy feet stampeding forward but stopped by spears pointed threateningly across their path.

 

“Perhaps not,” Frun murmured, his gaze wandering to the smaller sword still stuck fast in the rock. He clutched the spear in his hand, his thumb tracing the soft hide that coiled around the hand-hold, lingering in the feeling of his hand being where Mata-u’s had been just moments before. His eyes slid shut, tuning out the chuckle of the King towering above him. He dragged in a deep breath, wincing at the sting in his ribs, and launched his foot upward, connecting it with the steel blade jammed into the stone floor.

 

“What—?” The earth let out a deep groan and the stone rumbled loose from the floor. The King stumbled backward as the tip of the platform crumbled away, loose rock falling into the glowing pit below.

 

Frun angled the spear, driving it under the ribs of the King as he staggered backwards, shoving with all his remaining strength till the staff splintered under the sheer force. Kepp-Ahun let out a bloody gurgle, his feet sweeping out from under him, the rock carrying him away. One horrified scream was all he could get out before the liquid fire consumed him, swallowing his body whole, releasing a hiss as it burned away his flesh and bone.

 

Frun dragged himself to safety, towards the opening of the aisle, a stream of dark blood gushing out of his stomach. Mata-u pushed past the bewildered soldiers, falling to his knees at his side. “I—I didn’t—“ Frun began.

 

“Shhh,” Mata-u hushed him, his hands discerning the damage that his eyes could not. His skilled fingers fluttered down to the blade, inspecting the tissue surrounding it, paying no heed to the fact that he was quickly becoming covered in the Skull-King’s own blood.

 

“There is no time,” Frun groaned, collecting Mata-u’s hands. “The Mountain King is dead. I am now the Mountain King. And as such, I can choose my heir. I choose you, Prince Mata-u, to lead these people.”

 

“You need to be quiet, now,” Mata-u murmured, pulling away from Frun’s grasp and clamping a bloody hand on the warrior’s cheek.

“No,” Frun hissed, pulling Mata-u down into his arms. “You will accept. Tell me you accept!”

 

“Yes,” Mata-u stammered as Frun pressed a hand to his cheek. “Yes. I accept.”

 

“Free your people,” Frun instructed, his eyes slowly closing, his tired body sinking back to the cold slab of stone beneath. His thumb softly stroked Mata-u’s bottom lip before it, too, went limp, his arm folding neatly on top of his wide, blood-spattered, scarred chest.

 

“I accept,” Mata-u whispered, stripping off the scrap of red cloth from around his eyes, peering sightless and perfect, into the face of the warrior. “I accept.”

 

 


	6. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior stood his ground. Fogi’s eyebrow raised curiously. He didn’t recall practicing this part during recital… “Your Holiness,” the warrior said, rapping the butt of his staff on the floor. “Our warriors also have a gift to give His Highness."

One month later…

 

“I am sure I must look ridiculous,” Mata-u stated cooly, his face contorted into an expression that said he was only *barely* tolerating this harsh treatment. He rubbed at the rope-marks on his wrists; they were well on their way to being completely healed and itched like mad.

 

“I assure you, my Prin—er—my _King_ ,” Fogy said as he set the last little flower into place on top of the golden headdress. “You do not look ridiculous.”

 

“Hmmph.” Mata-u huffed as he helped himself out of the wicker chair and held his arms out to be dressed. A fine robe of gold threads and blue and green beads were lifted up over his head and secured around his waist with a blue sash, the color of the Lake Tribe. “I assume you have the altar prepared.”

 

“Of course I do!,” Fogi sang, donning his own ostentatious feathered crown securely and grabbing up his ornamented staff. “I _am_ High Preist, after all.”

 

Mata-u chuckled in spite of himself and hooked an arm around his good friend’s shoulders. “Then shall we?”

 

“Oh,  indeed.”

 

* * * * *

 

The Water Tribe was known for their music and their ingenuity. The former weeks had been spent in meticulous preparation for the Coronation of the new Mountain King. The Mountain Tribe had never heard of music before, but Mata-u’s people were quick to incorporate the War-Horn’s powerful blast and the beating of Mountain drums into the fluid, lithe sound of the strings and the conch and soon the halls were filled with the rhythmic, haunting sound.

 

Mata’u entered the King’s chamber, where mere weeks ago he had been brought as a captive. He ascended the steps to the ancient throne, stood patiently as the list of noble warriors in attendance was read aloud and the torches were lit. Mata-u smiled graciously under the mask of beads that fell across his eyes, veiling his thick lashes and the pearl-white gleam of his eyes.

 

When the drums stopped, Fogi stepped forward, stretching his arms out wide, smiling triumphantly down at the ornately dressed Lake-people, who were front and center for the event. “Great Mountain People, you have come to witness the coronation of your new King. Though we are not of the same faith, we would like to be considered your brethren. As such, we will honor the traditions laid down by your ancestors. To the great God-King Ly’tonwai and his bride, Ceisi, we offer the song of Our People.”

 

The familiar tune filled the halls with a renewed sound—the elegant chimes and soulful strings matched with the thrumming beat of skin-covered drums and animal horns. Fogi sang effortlessly, his voice floating high up into the fire-lit cave.

 

                “ _Life is water-given, water-breathed and water-ruled_

_From the cup of Dret-tyn’s hand_

_To the Warriors of old_

_As water flows through Eil K’chan her people follow, still_

_Owing servitude and sacrifice_

_To the One who makes us whole.”_

“And now, we honor our deity, The Great Creator with a gift of your choosing.” Fogi glanced downward and summoned a warrior standing to the left of the platform.

 

“Your holiness, we have but one gift,” the warrior chanted, bowing to one knee on the ground in front of the elevated Prince. “That is fealty to our New King.” A roar of cheers rang out behind him, followed by hundreds of fists being pumped into the air, some with weapons attached.

 

Fogi glanced at Mata-u, who nodded his approval.

 

“Your New King accepts,” Fogi said.

 

The Warrior stood his ground. Fogi’s eyebrow raised curiously. He didn’t recall practicing this part during recital… “Your Holiness,” the warrior said, rapping the butt of his staff on the floor. “Our warriors also have a gift to give His Highness.”

 

Instinctively, Fogi placed a hand on Mata-u’s shoulder. He eyed the soldier warily. It would not be unlike the Mountain Tribe to try something and turn on the Prince, considering he was their prisoner not so long ago and now stood to inherit their throne.

 

“What gift do you bring?,” Mata-u offered. Foggy squeezed his shoulder nervously but Mata-u shrugged him off. “It’s alright,” he muttered, for Fogi’s ears only.

 

The Great Hall doors swung wide and a small procession marched in. In the very front, bound by two leather straps at his wrists, Frun walked, head held high and looking much cleaner than he ever had before.

 

“What’s happening?,” Mata-u murmured.

 

Fogi grinned and it added a secretive lilt to his voice as he replied, “Oh, you’ll see.”

 

When the Great Skull King came to kneel in front of the blazing altar, Mata-u let out a small gasp. His face slid into a concerned grimace and he immediately jumped off the platform, beads rattling and robes flying as he came to stoop in front of him. “Frun?”

 

“My King,” Frun said warily, “You are breaking tradition.”

 

“Damn tradition,” Mata-u whispered, placing a hand on either of Frank’s shoulders. “You should not be out of bed!”

 

Frun let out an indignant huff and pulled the deer-skin vest aside, revealing the long gash on his side wrapped securely in bandages. He led Mata-u’s hand to it, his elegant fingers sweeping down the layers of cloth. “It is much better.”

 

“You are foolish.”

 

A smile pulled at the edges of Frun’s mouth. “Aren’t you going to continue the ceremony?”

 

Mata-u arose with a sigh and a tightly clenched jaw, waving a hand over his head at Fogi.

 

Fogi straightened up and addressed the group of warriors with a proud smile. “What gift do you bring your New King?”

 

A heavily tattooed soldier stepped forward, presenting the ropes that bound Frun in his outstretched hand. “We offer The Skull Lord himself.”

 

Frun’s hand still lightly touched Mata-u’s as he bowed his head before him. “Well?,” he said, his thumb sweeping over Mata-u’s palm. “Do you accept?”

 

Mata-u directed his distant gaze towards the group of men. “I accept this generous gift as a token of your fealty.”

 

Soon, the trumpet blast sounded and the hall filled with the sound of a thousand people dropping to their knees.

 

* * * * *

 

“You could untie me now,” Frun murmured. He squirmed a bit, adjusting his weight in the rickety chair that was sure to break at any moment under his weight.

 

“Hmmm,” Mata-u teased, running a finger along Frun’s flexing jawline as he circled him. “I was unaware that presents talked.”

 

Frun snorted out a subdued chuckle and angled his face to meet his new King’s. Mata-u came to stand in front of him, the soft skin of his chest illuminated by the flickering firelight. The illuminated room allowed for more light to enter through the veil of beads and revealed the flame that danced in Mata-u’s pearlescent eyes. “I suppose this is my penitence,” he huffed finally.

 

“Penitence?” Mata-u murmured, swinging one leg over Frun’s lap as the chair beneath them groaned raggedly. He captured Frun’s jaw, forcing him to meet his haunting gaze. “I’d say you’re getting off pretty easy, so far.”

 

Frun sucked in his bottom lip and bit down, letting his eyes wander down the perfectly toned body above him. “Careful, highness,” he growled. “These binds aren’t very dependable. And I happen to be a master of escape.”

 

“Oooh, do tell.” Mata-u dipped his head forward, exposing his neck. Frun felt mesmerized by his pulse as he watched it throb away. Mata-u’s body lowered slowly, his seat coming to rest fully on the barely-covered lap of his captive. Frun let out a frustrated grunt and leaned back to nip at the exposed skin. Mata-u expertly jerked his head away, leaving Frun biting blank air. He growled.

 

“Mata-u,” He moaned, desperate, warningly.

 

Mata-u ignored him. “Now what do you suppose I should do with you?”

 

Frun searched Mata-u’s face for an answer, the King’s impish grin giving away none of its secrets. “What do you _want_ to do?,” he offered, his voice a mere whisper, his warm breath blowing against Mata-u’s ear.

 

“I want to unwrap my present.” Long fingernails etched their way up Frun’s muscled thighs, sending instant sparks to Frun’s groin. His already stiffened cock jumped at the touch, the bulbous head pressing greedily into its meager coverings.

 

His breath hitched at the feel of the sharp nails finding their way to his round balls, sweeping under the soft dusting of hair there only to skirt around and press into his sharp hip-bones. Frun’s head went back, eyes glazing over with need, arm muscles taught and flexing, tugging at the rope experimentally as the body above him flattened to his chest. A groan rumbled through him as the hands expertly dragged the ties across his belly and undid them, pushing the flattened fabric away to reveal his aching manhood. Frun’s mouth dropped open and a pathetic whine escaped.

 

Mata-u laughed mercilessly, one hand squeezing down on the impressive shaft between Frun’s legs. “Well now. That was very undignified for a mighty Warlord.”

 

Frun could not bother to care—he was too far-gone, now, happily trapped and bucking upward at the touch that was simultaneously everything and not enough.

 

“I cannot trust you,” Mata-u teased, nipping underneath Frun’s chin. He was rewarded with a full-body shudder and the sound of straining rope fibers about to snap under the pull warrior’s biceps. “You shall stay bound.”

 

Frun let out a whimper—devastated and hungry, gnashing his teeth against Mata-u’s lips as his dick jumped to every sigh and laugh the King produced. “You may have your fun, now,” Frun warned. “But know that when I am released, I will—NNNNGhhh—“

 

Mata-u’s hand clenched a fistful of his pulsating cock, two fingers digging down into his testicles. Frun’s hips soared off the chair, lifting them both and spilling Mata-u to his chest. Mata-u dissolved into the touch, his mouth dropping open for Frun’s tongue to wiggle freely inside, lapping at the taste of the honey-mead he had at the celebration.

 

“Gods,” Frun pleaded, panting. “Give me death. It is more merciful.”

 

Mata-u slid silently off Frun’s lap, as quiet as he had come, and Frun let out a disappointed bark. Mata-u’s hand skittered along the finely trimmed table until his fingers touched a fine leather strap. He turned back to Frun, twirling it in his hand. “No. I have changed my mind. I prefer you wrapped up.”

 

Frun’s eyebrow twitched downward quizzically, but Mata-u was back onto his lap, now and Frun could rut freely against his open thighs, so he was happily at the King’s mercy.

 

The first loop was loose and slipped over the seeping head of his cock, pulled secure with a slight tug before the next loop was added, the two pieces intersecting in “x”s all the way down his impressive shaft. Three loops tied off the hilt of his cock from his balls that were drawing up tight with come, one final tie secured underneath with a merciless knot. He was quivering now, mouth hanging open stupidly, Mata-u’s smiling lips peppering it with kisses, his elegant fingers running over his hands, his face, his ears. He rocked his own hardening length against Frun’s stomach. “Mmmh,” he moaned, dipping one hand down to touch his shaft. He pressed their lengths together and rubbed, feeling the rib-like press of the leather strap helplessly binding Frun’s cock as he toyed with him. “It feels so good,” he offered. Frun’s dazed glance slid down to watch himself being rubbed off by the naked cock of his King. His dick now swollen, the tip dry and red, slid harshly over the seeping wetness of Mata-u’s free shaft.

 

“Please,” he said, his voice little more than a harsh whisper.

 

“I want you to know that this is mine,” Mata-u moaned, working a full upper-body slide in, flattening his stomach to Frun’s cock and running it over his ebbing belly.

 

Frun’s teeth clenched, his cock sputtering despite its binds, a thick stream of pre-come forcing its way out of his constricted hole. “Yes,” he said readily.

 

“You will do as I say. You are mine to command.” Mata-u’s grasp was firmer this time, his free hand grabbing at the finely chopped hair of the nape of Frun’s neck and pulling his head back.

 

“Yes,” Frun begged.

 

“You will occupy my bed every night forward and fight for me and please me and me alone. Do you understand.”

 

“Yes, _gods YES,”_ Frun was practically wailing.

 

His ropes fell away with the flick of a fine blade and his hands were on Mata-u, frantically drawing him into his massive arms and wrapping him up in taught muscle. Mata-u melted, his head falling back, subjecting himself to the firm, hungry bites and the clawing hands that tore at his fine skin coverings.

 

Frun launched them both off the chair, two firm hands going around to cup Mata-u’s ass as he gave the chair a hard kick, sending it into tiny splinters against the cave wall. He carried Mata-u to his bed, _his bed,_ where they had spent that first night and where they would spend every night from then on. The coverings were plush and soft and Mata-u’s fell into them, with Frun clamoring after. “ _Gods, damn, mmmh…”_ He dipped his head down, capturing a blushing nipple into his mouth, licking it into a firm bud and sucking until Mata-u was hissing from the pain and pleasure.

 

He gathered Mata-u’s hands over his head, pressing his trapped erection into Mata-u’s stomach, edging his hips lower, rutting in between his warm ass-cheeks. Mata-u’s legs obediently fell open, and a full-body shiver worked its way through him as Frun greedily tugged on his cock.

 

His gentle strokes continued down Frun’s back. They were both slowly dissolving together into a panting tangle of arms and legs. “Wait,” Mata-u murmured, his hand suddenly on Frun’s side.

 

Frun froze above him, a hand planted on either side, bone necklace clacking together as he waited. “It’s alright,” he offered. “Really.”

 

“You’re sure..?”

 

“My _King_ ,” Frun growled, lunging forward to nip at his lover’s waiting mouth. “Please…” Mata-u moaned into the touch, seemingly content to let that be that.

 

Frun rummaged through the jars on the shelf above their heads, blindly thumbing through them until he found the one he was looking for. He popped it open and the saccharine smell of honey permeated the room. Mata-u laid still, knees slightly spread at the sensation of the hand running along them. The pressure began, a short sting of pain followed by a thrum of pleasure as he was opened up onto Frun’s fingers.

 

His hand fell to his chest, exploring Frun’s hallowed out cheeks as he sucked greedily at Mata-u’s nipple, rolling the other into a stiff peak, brushing a calloused thumb over the areola and sliding a nail up into the slit, making Mata-u jump. “Aahh!” Mata-u’s muscles instinctively clenched around Frun’s fingers, earning him a deep growl from within the man’s chest.  Frun pushed further in, opening him up, his bound cock twitching in anticipation.

 

His fingers brushed over the soft bulb deep inside of him, coated with the sticky slick of honey and arching gently upward into the soft, warm, wet muscle. Mata-u gasped, his entire body suddenly spasming around the calloused fingers buried inside. Frun took that as warning, and withdrew.

 

“No,” Mata-u whimpered, his cock throbbing, freely bouncing against his ebbing belly, coated with slick. “More…”

 

Frun roughly threw Mata-u’s leg open further, flattening himself and positioning his hips against Mata-u’s. He tore at the painful scrap of leather and uncoiled it roughly, secretly hoping that the pain would help him to last. With a hand to the back of Mata-u’s head, straining against the plush fur coverings, he lined himself up and thrust forward.

 

Mata-u’s chin hit his chest, arms wrapping tightly around Frun’s waist, nails dragging upward into taught muscle.

 

“ _My King_ ,”  Frun chanted, his sore cock opening Mata-u up, working a rhythm against him, Mata-u’s wet shaft trapped and throbbing between their bellies. He arched upward, burying himself in the tight, hot muscles, a nipple clenched tightly between his teeth and suckling as if he thought he could get milk out of it. “ _You are my King…”_

Mata-u drew up tight, his whole body releasing with a shudder, hot seed spurting between them as he clenched down onto Frun’s cock.

 

Frun bit down, drawing a faint taste of blood as he pounded into the new tightness. His bulbous head battered against the soft mound deep inside Mata-u as he felt his climax build. He hammered against him mercilessly, reveling in the rough slap of skin against skin, driving himself to the edge and exploding over it.

 

Honey and come filling him to his belly, Mata-u covered his cry with a fist as his lover convulsed above him, drawing in gasping breaths and releasing ragged sighs.

 

Finished with sweet, coaxing kisses and bathed in wetness and firelight, Frun pressed his glistening forehead to Mata-u’s, drawing him closer into the circle of his arms.

 


End file.
